Unpainted Pictures
Here he sits at a table in the kitchen, a vase of poppies set just so, and on his palette water mixed with tinctures he’s hidden in canisters, colors brought out against orders. Is a flower’s soul always innocent? Perhaps a bit of carmine, and stems of grenadine. These he renders on letter paper taken from the office upstairs. Verboten, the act of painting this degenerate modernism that spilled from his oils before the regime gave its orders. And he a former sympathizer. Maybe a flower becomes a soldier, the shoulders overbearing above slender legs walking all night in the snow. Does the tulip bleed into its neighbour, and, if a cloud comes to the window, might it blot out the sun almost completely? These shapes, a bouquet unfettered above turquoise, a garden fragrant with peonies and lilac blended such that there is no ground upon which to grow. Sometimes the sea threatens to inhale him, just as it has his work--verboten-- the next wave coming on violet seas with its undertow, undiluted white set to drown his own brooding maze of moods from the once-upon-a-yellow-sky. Judith Skillman Judith Skillman’s recent book is Kafka’s Shadow, Deerbrook Editions. Her work has appeared in LitMag, Shenandoah, Zyzzyva, FIELD, and elsewhere. Awards include an Eric Mathieu King Fund grant from the Academy of American Poets. She is a faculty member at the Richard Hugo House in Seattle, Washington. Visit www.judithskillman.com
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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